Chapter 4 - The Man Who Stood
Clara ran.
I caught her wrist.
“Wait.”
“My daughter—”
“Running blindly downstairs gets both of you killed.”
“She needs me.”
“She needs you alive.”
For one terrible second, Clara looked ready to strike me.
Then another scream echoed through the mansion.
I released her.
“Enzo, lockdown.”
“Already initiated.”
“What happened?”
“Two men entered through the catering entrance using vendor credentials from the wedding.”
Ferretti had planted them before Bianca disappeared.
This had been planned.
I moved toward the private elevator.
Clara followed.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
“That wasn't a request.”
“Neither was my answer.”
The elevator descended.
I checked the pistol.
Clara stared at it.
“You can use one?”
“I grew up around Marco.”
“That's not an answer.”
“Yes.”
I handed her the spare from the compartment beneath my chair.
Her eyebrows rose.
“You keep guns in your wheelchair?”
“I keep many things in my wheelchair.”
The doors opened.
A man stepped from the shadows.
Clara raised the pistol.
I fired first.
The shot struck his shoulder and spun him into the wall.
His weapon fell.
“Move.”
We crossed the service corridor.
Rosie's crying came from the kitchen.
When we entered, one of Ferretti's men had her trapped against a counter.
He held the silver bell.
“Looking for this?”
Clara raised her weapon.
“Let her go.”
The man smiled.
Then another voice came from behind us.
“Put it down.”
Second gunman.
Clara froze.
I counted distances.
Too far.
Rosie looked at me.
She was terrified.
But she wasn't crying anymore.
“Mr. Lorenzo?”
“I'm here.”
“You promised.”
I didn't remember making one.
Children apparently invented promises whenever adults were too slow.
The gunman behind Clara moved closer.
And something inside me snapped.
Not rage.
Calculation.
For two years, nearly everyone had looked at my wheelchair and seen the same thing.
Limitation.
They had never asked what rehabilitation I had done privately.
Never asked why I had installed parallel bars in the locked gym.
Never asked why my doctors had suddenly stopped speaking publicly about my prognosis.
I locked the brakes.
Placed both hands on the armrests.
And pushed.
Pain ripped through my legs.
My knees shook violently.
But I stood.
The gunman's face changed.
That half second was enough.
Clara dropped.
I fired.
Enzo's guards crashed through the opposite entrance.
Within seconds, it was over.
Then my knees buckled.
Clara caught me before I hit the floor.
“Lorenzo!”
Her arms wrapped around my chest.
I hated the weakness.
Hated needing her.
But then Rosie ran toward us.
“You stood!”
She threw her arms around my neck.
I closed my eyes.
“For about three seconds.”
“That counts.”
I laughed despite myself.
Clara was staring at me.
“You can walk?”
“No.”
“But you stood.”
“Sometimes.”
“Does anyone know?”
“Enzo. My doctors. Now you.”
“Why hide it?”
I looked at the unconscious intruder.
“Because men become careless when they believe you're helpless.”
Rosie nodded solemnly.
“That's smart.”
Her mother looked horrified.
“Please don't encourage him.”
For one impossible moment, in a kitchen littered with broken glass and armed guards, we were laughing.
Then Enzo handed me the silver bell.
Inside its hollow base was a tiny brass key.
An engraving ran along its side.
B-317.
I knew what it meant.
“Grand Central.”
Clara stared.
“What?”
“Locker B-317.”
Forty minutes later, Enzo drove us into Manhattan.
I insisted Clara and Rosie remain at the estate.
Clara insisted otherwise.
Naturally, Clara won.
Locker B-317 contained no money.
No ledger.
Only a flash drive and a sealed envelope.
My name was written across the front.
Lorenzo Vitali.
I opened it.
The handwriting belonged to Marco.
If Clara has found you, then I'm dead.
I continued reading.
You were betrayed the night of your ambush.
My breathing stopped.
The order didn't come from Ferretti.
I looked at Enzo.
Then Clara.
The next sentence was worse.
Someone inside your own house gave them your route.
Beneath it was a name.
I read it twice.
Impossible.
Clara leaned closer.
“Who?”
I folded the letter.
Before I could answer, my phone vibrated.
A photograph arrived.
Bianca.
Alive.
Terrified.
Bound to a chair.
A message followed.
Bring the key to Pier 19 at midnight, or your bride dies.
Clara looked at the screen.
Then at me.
“You're going.”
“Yes.”
“It's a trap.”
“Yes.”
“You still love her?”
May you like
I didn't answer.
And for some reason, that silence hurt Clara more than I expected.
